


Of Clouds and Silver Linings ★

by elfroot



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 08:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfroot/pseuds/elfroot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke is a man in high demand, and his many obligations force Fenris to question his place in the Champion's life. Misunderstandings abound, but as usual, Hawke manages to save the day. Includes lip-lock feels and a healthy dose of angsty fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Clouds and Silver Linings ★

"Le-et—Lath...Le-e-ath...er... _Fasta vass_!"  
  
Fenris closed the book with a snap, finally giving up. He'd been reading the same page for the past two hours and it was _clear_ that his many attempts at returning his attention to it were doomed to fail. His mind was elsewhere. He usually enjoyed Varric's questionable prose, but he couldn't for the life of him understand the words presented to him now, even ones he'd learned long ago. _Leather_ —or lack thereof—certainly was one of the dwarf's personal favorites and if Fenris was more than familiar with its pronunciation, his thoughts didn't care a fig. _He_ didn't. His whole being was focused on the man that had left earlier this evening, and all he could remember was the twinge of despair he'd felt as Hawke slipped out the door without looking back. Cold, distracted. As if walking the last steps to cement the distance between them.  
  
Fenris slouched further down on the settee, glowering at the dancing fire warming his feet. He couldn't recall when his lover had begun behaving differently—perhaps when the responsibilities his new title required had finally sunk in. The Champion of Kirkwall was in high demand, and Fenris was left behind. It was so soon after their reconciliation, he wondered whether it was a coincidence. Fenris scowled, disgust crossing his face, and yet what he felt was nowhere near what he showed, even without an audience. It was dread that wrapped around his heart and nausea that rolled in his stomach, and a muffled groan graced his lips, his mind fighting for control. Hawke had managed, in such a short time, to do what no other had since his escape. He had torn away his walls and made Fenris want to share things he’d kept to himself, desires and thoughts he hadn't known even existed. He'd made him feel _alive_ , and many years down the line, he feared the man had grown tired. He wouldn't blame him—he might if his temper flared, but deep down, he felt like he deserved it.  
  
He'd been such a coward.  
  
Still, even after his abrupt change of heart, Hawke had waited for him, waited without the reassurance that he might ever come around. Perhaps he'd waited too long. With Danarius dead and mishaps forgiven, they'd known bliss together, but the elf was wary. He wasn't used to happiness. He wasn't used to _love_ , and he was so damned scared to lose it all that the worst scenarios haunted his mind. It was strange. As much as he'd feared losing his freedom if he shared his heart, now it felt like living without Hawke would leave him incomplete. Had he somehow scared the man away? Between his changing moods and his inexperience, he wasn't sure whether he met the mage's expectations. For weeks now distance lingered between them, and Fenris was left clinging to old habits: anger, for the most part. Hawke barely even touched him and his eyes slid off him too easily, and the elf squirmed on the couch as he tried to remember the last time he'd smiled at him, his chest constricted. He didn't have time for him. A ball here and a gathering there and intimacy had become scarce, their many conversations never making allusions to _them_. Hawke had been so enthused in the beginning. Overwhelming at times, and if Fenris had had some trouble adjusting to so much attention, now he literally _craved it_. He missed him. From the way he flicked his ears just to annoy him to the way he cupped his face before he kissed him, his gaze always a devastating tenderness. He hadn't seen that gaze in a long time, because he never saw his eyes anymore.  
  
As if they hid something.  
  
Fenris' heart sank in his chest and he stood up, casting a sidelong glance to the fire. Hawke had expressed his wish for him to stay, but it seemed pointless. They would share a bottle of wine and Hawke would not fail to mention how Lady Fairweather had forced him to dance, and Fenris didn't want to know. He didn't want to know that she clung to him like he was the last man in Thedas, nor did he want to know how much she longed to meet his pointy-eared _friend_. He'd caught her gaze before, only to see disdain there—she was as subtle as an army of Darkspawn—and he loathed her more than he loathed the abomination. Of course she didn't deem him worthy of the Champion. He doubted anyone did, and perhaps it was getting to Hawke as well. Perhaps the man needed more mindless giggling in his life, and Fenris sneered at the thought, throwing the book into the fire. So be it. He wouldn't stay for another night of disguised interest, merely waiting to be discarded—or worse, replaced. It stung too much. Turning on his heel, he stalked to the door, escaping to the hallway and bolting for the stairs. As it turned out—for once—leaving stung even more.  
  
  
  
  
  


//////////////////////////////////////

 

 

 

 

Being called _Master_ at home, by an elf who didn't seem to grasp the difference between an employer and an owner, was disturbing. But being called _Master_ at a ball, in front of the ton of Kirkwall, was catastrophic. Especially when the story involved _the other Master_ , mainly known as Fenris, storming out of his estate without a word. Hawke had been on the verge of leaving Lady's Fairweather's mansion when he heard cries at the door, and the sight of Orana had not boded well. She never left the safety of her new home, and for her to come _here_ when she should have been fast asleep dangerously alarmed the mage.  
  
"Did he say anything?" Hawke inquired as he joined her outside, feeling Lady Fairweather's disapproving glare boring into the back of his head. She didn't like the company he kept, but it was hardly any of her business. As the Champion of Kirkwall, he had certain obligations he couldn't overlook, but what he did with his life regarded no one but himself.  
  
And his life, right now, felt ridiculously precarious.  
  
"N-No," Orana shook her head, her wide eyes filled with anguish. And then she changed her mind. "Yes."  
  
Hawke arched one brow, encouraging her to continue. She did. _Of course_ it was in Arcanum, and _of course_ she wouldn't translate, possibly more agitated than he was, and he stopped her in the middle of her gibberish monologue, one hand raised in a silent plea.  
  
"Did he say where he was going?"  
  
"Only that he could not stay," and he swore to the Maker that she was about to burst into tears. "I don't understand. I poured him wine. I cooked his favorite meal. I didn't mean to anger him, Master Hawke, I—"  
  
The word made him wince and he forced a smile to reassure her, knowing all too well that she would blame herself for something that was unlikely her fault.  
  
"Orana," he interrupted her gently, because if he didn't she could very well go on for a while, and chances were that he would never get the full story either way. He only knew that Fenris had cursed in Tevinter before leaving, and that was never a good sign. Neither was her presence here.  
  
"Thank you for alerting me. You..." Did the right thing? Hawke clicked his tongue, quickly abandoning the thought of planting unnecessary ideas in her head. Who knew what she would make of them when she so easily took things in such literal senses.  
  
He sighed instead, cupping her frail shoulder with his hand.  
  
"Don't worry. I've a good idea where Fenris might have gone, and I promise to bring him back in one piece."  
  
A possibly drunk and glowing piece, but one piece nonetheless. He smiled again, mostly for himself—Maker knew his nerves were wracked—and he turned his head towards the guard posted near the door, offering that loopy grin of his he knew no one could resist.  
  
"Oh, look at you, eavesdropping on the Champion and silently _begging_ to join my cause." Not that the poor man had had any choice but to _listen_ , yet it didn't matter. Hawke had no time to walk her home, let alone find someone capable to do it in his stead.  
  
The guard began to shake his head, hands raised in protest, but Hawke was quick to silence him as he placed a pouch of gold in his palm.  
  
"I feel particularly generous tonight," he smirked, giving the man's full hand an insistent squeeze. "And so do _you_. This is for your trouble. I have no doubt that Lady Fairweather might have your head for leaving her perfectly _safe_ porch unguarded, but _I_ will have that _and more_ should you refuse to escort my little friend here."  
  
The smug, ominous air about him was implacable as he gestured towards Orana, silently warning the man that he would tolerate no hint of disdain towards her. The guard merely blinked, and Hawke knew it was no easy task to disobey Lady Fairweather, but he ultimately complied with a muffled groan.  
  
_Good_.  
  
"Follow this _charitable_ man," he told Orana, and he smiled when she nodded. "You need not wait for me. In fact... _don't_." He didn't know when he'd come back, or even _how_ for that matter. If the situation was as dire as it felt, he might very well leave a few limbs behind. Ha!  
  
"Stay in your bedchamber, and please, for the love of the Maker... don't come out until morning. _Whatever_ you may _hear._ " Especially if she heard anything at all.  
  
Hawke didn't bother elaborating, instead leaping past her as if his arse had been set on fire.  
  
He'd never run so fast in his life—or perhaps he had, _once_ , to escape an ogre. The truth was, he should have stayed home. He should have stopped delaying the inevitable and grown a spine, and talked to the elf he adored. Fenris had left him once, and he didn't think he could go through the same pain again. It was the reason why he was so careful around him— _and_ the reason why he was blue-balled—for the longer he remained in his company, the more he wanted him. The thought of driving him away frightened him so. He felt too much for him—at least more than he thought the elf could handle—and he'd gradually distanced himself in fear of smothering him.  
  
But he could hardly contain himself.  
  
His heart stirred in unison with his blood nearly every time their eyes met, forcing him to look away. He quivered at the mere memory of his voice, filling his mind night and day—and Maker, what a raspy, sexy voice it was. He wanted nothing more than to pamper him, but he'd handled it so poorly that he found himself at a dead end now, unsure how to proceed.  
  
It had become a vicious cycle of sorts.  
  
The longer he stayed away, the more he wanted him, and the more he wanted him, the less he thought Fenris could handle the pent-up affection that had built up overtime, restrained desires he wasn't sure he could deal with should he unleash them. Maker help him, he barely could handle them _himself_. He was so stupidly smitten he could think of little else. Was he still so transparent that he'd finally driven the elf away, driven him to run before he exploded?  
  
Or had Fenris gotten the wrong message...?  
  
Hawke pushed open the doors of the Hanged Man, barging in with an air of virility that commanded attention. He dismissed his fears as he spotted the elf, ignoring the looks of awe fixed on him. _Finally_. There he was, safe and sound, a flower amid the dirt—if one liked their flowers a little thorny, anyway.  
  
He stalked to the bar, hoping to surprise Fenris with his irresistible smile—irresistible and _twitchy_ , the result of his sudden anxiety. The elf had seen him coming— _somehow_ —and he didn't flinch as Hawke stood next to him, merely gulping down another mouthful of wine.  
  
"Fenris—"  
  
"Don't," the elf interrupted him abruptly, not even giving him one look. "I didn't come here to be harassed by you, Hawke. I will have this brief moment of peace undisturbed."  
  
"Harassed?"  
  
Hadn't he been doing the complete opposite? Hawke blinked, certain he'd misheard, and his confusion seemed to cause Fenris' temper to flare, his mouth twisted in a severe sneer. He didn't let it deter him—he was used to this—but he found his heart beating much faster suddenly, dread coiling in the pit of his stomach.  
  
"Of course. A moment of peace. At the _Hanged Man_." Ahem. "The scenery's much warmer than the _comfort_ of my bedchamber, I'll give you that," he tried for a bit of humor, but the glare Fenris shot him froze the grin on his lips and he cleared his throat, uneasy.  
  
That was a pretty bad start.  
  
"Why did you leave?" he went on, his voice gentle.  
  
"Why did _you_?" the elf shot back, and the spite in his tone felt like a punch in his gut. He wasn’t sure why Fenris had gone back to his cold disposition. _Something_ was undeniably wrong, but it didn't match what he'd thought. He'd feared he had neglected him too much, but if the elf already felt _harassed_ when Hawke had barely even spoken _one word_ —namely, _well_ , his name—it clearly wasn't the case.  
  
Unless it was all about the first conclusion he'd come to, and thinking that Fenris might actually be over him sent his mind reeling in panic, inwardly gasping for air.  
  
"Let me guess." Fenris scoffed, disgruntled. "Did Lady Fairweather have no more use of your many services?"  
  
Hawke failed to notice the double-entendre, missing the glint of jealousy in his lover's beautiful eyes. All he cared about was to salvage this—whatever _this_ was—and to appease the scorn in Fenris' voice, resorting to his best weapon. Hawke had this terrible habit of joking around at the worst times, and since his humor clearly wasn't at its best, keeping quiet seemed a much better option.  
  
Of course, he didn't go the silent route.  
  
"Perish the thought," he snorted instead, oblivious. He was so desperate to make him smile. "She's insatiable. As they all are, I'm afraid. I'm a man of importance despite my unhealthy relationship with moth-eaten scarves. No one resists my charms."  
  
Big mistake.  
  
Fenris' fury was unleashed in the form of a punch atop the counter, the blow shattering a few glasses in its wake. Hawke, as familiar as he was with his dangerous antics, couldn't help but take a small step back. He wasn't afraid Fenris might hurt him, not physically. He was afraid he might truly be losing him, feeling completely unwelcome in the elf's space. That was a first, and he felt the pain of it, an emotional kind of ache that wounded even his flesh.  
  
Perhaps even more so than an actual blow.  
  
"Is this how you truly wish to rid of me?" Fenris hissed, turning to him in all his wrathful glory. "By flaunting your conquests in my face?"  
  
Hawke genuinely looked puzzled, perhaps igniting his lover's rage even more. Or could he still call him that? It made him cringe to think such things, feeling a slight pang of indignation. Conquests? There had only ever been _Fenris_.  
  
There would only ever be him.  
  
"Rid of you?" he repeated, flabbergasted. "What are you _talking_ about?"  
  
"Do not think to take me for a fool, Hawke. I've already endured enough," he snarled, ignoring the growing tumult around them.  
  
It didn't take much to trigger brawls in the tavern, yet Hawke also only had eyes for Fenris, attentive as to not miss a thing. He reached back to touch his staff for good measure, a warning for everyone else, and Fenris angrily pointed at him with gauntleted fingers, clearly unfinished.  
  
"I thought better of you. If you wished to leave me, you needed only say the word.  
  
That hurt. The accusation as well as the insinuation, both false, and Hawke grew a little frustration of his own. Misunderstandings seemed to abound and it finally dawned on him that he'd chosen the wrong words. _He got it._ His earlier jokes had been a poor slip of judgment and he realized that now, but what in the Maker had made Fenris mad in the first place? What had caused him to _leave_ the estate and think the unthinkable?  
  
"Fenris," he started with a shake of his head, reaching out as if to touch him.  
  
He thought better of it as the elf followed the movement of his hand with daggers in his eyes, stilling midway. It made him sigh, a sound of bubbling annoyance, and he pressed his lips together in order to keep calm. He _knew_ this was all a bad case of miscommunication. It seemed so clear now. It couldn't be otherwise, yet he also knew that once Fenris' mind was set on one thing, it took mighty efforts to make him see anything beyond it. His arm fell back to his side and he silently pleaded with him, only wishing he would listen.  
  
"You're mistaken," he said flatly, hoping to catch his attention.  
  
He did, although it wasn't quite what he'd expected. Fenris snorted, scorn flashing in his gaze. There was pain there as well and Hawke couldn't even fathom how it had gotten there, aching to wash it away. It infuriated him even more to be so evidently _helpless_ , and he braced himself for what he knew would be a harsh response.  
  
"Am I?" Fenris' tone was cynical at best, something he hadn't heard in quite some time. "Need I remind you of your own words, the confession you so kindly provided mere moments ago?"  
  
"No, Fenris... Let me explain—"  
  
"You already have!" he shouted, baring his teeth. "If you must insist on spreading your filthy lies, do not make the mistake to think me an imbecile."  
  
"I do not—" Hawke cut himself off, scoffing low.  
  
Filthy lies? That did it.  
  
They stared at each other for the longest time, Fenris' nostrils flaring as Hawke's glare mirrored the elf's. He was a patient man. One had to be in order to handle such a spit-fire creature, but he was tired, he was concerned, and he wanted this to be over with. To clear whatever misinterpretation he'd accidentally created and love his elf proper. He knew it was mostly his fault, but there was only so much misplaced accusations he could take without flinching.  
  
He grabbed his arm. It was probably the most daring decision he'd ever taken, putting his very life at stake even by such a simple gesture, but he didn't care.  
  
"Come with me."  
  
"I do not answer to you, _mage_. Leave me be." He jerked away, but the absence of his trademark glow enveloping his skin was a good sign.  
  
Hawke's twitching eye, however, was not.  
  
He roared, impatience overflowing as he rapidly grew aggravated. He raked moist, trembling hands through his hair, fisting it as he reached the peak of his annoyance.  
  
"Andraste's flaming arse, _Fenris_!" He groaned, visibly exasperated, and he searched his satchel with quick and abrupt gestures.  
  
Fenris oddly remained silent as he threw coins on the counter, enough to rent a room for a whole week.  
  
"Keep the extra gold," he told the bartender, and his gaze brooked no disobedience. "Consider it compensation for the commotion we're likely going to cause." His lips pulled back from his teeth in a grin entirely void of humor, and he turned to Fenris once more, daring to close his fingers around his wrist.  
  
It was a miracle he survived it, and quite a wonder that Fenris followed him. He could hear him grumble behind him, but the fact that he didn't give any sign of wanting to _fist_ him was a feat in itself. He knew he was angry. He knew he was hurt as well, for reasons that made no sense, and the short distance to their rented room gave him enough time to cool down. It was Fenris. Of course it had to be overly complicated, yet in truth, it really wasn't. He could see it now. The lack of attention, the frequent moments of absence, the badly misplaced jokes. Hawke had been so keen on avoiding a repeat of their first try that he'd nearly made it happen again, poorly handling what Fenris was finally ready to embrace. He should have trusted him. Fenris trusted _him_ , and he had failed him. The elf had never needed to be coddled. Hawke had so selfishly dreaded losing him again, he had misjudged his lover's strength.  
  
And perhaps his affections as well.  
  
He closed the door shut behind them, letting go of his wrist just as Fenris recoiled from his touch. It stung to be on the receiving end of his rancor, but he could see in his eyes that something had changed. The anger had faded, replaced by some sort of resignation that locked the air in the man's chest. He looked so painfully defeated. Hawke felt the urge to pull him into a fierce embrace, and he struggled against it, searching a gaze that would not be returned.  
  
"Fenris..."  
  
His heart sank at the sight he gave, stubbornly avoiding him. Fenris merely glared down the length of his body and he looked so oddly _adorable_ in that moment, Hawke couldn't help but quirk up a feeble smile—now _that_ would have gotten him fisted had he said anything aloud. But he kept quiet, observing the elf that had captured his heart from the first moment they'd sat together. He still couldn't quite explain it. Fenris had always seemed so composed, in full possession of his wits. But he'd also always been broken. They had quickly found common ground, despite the elf's aversion to mages. He was a particularly engaging conversationalist in Hawke's company, and it had been clear from the start that they both highly enjoyed each other's presence. Perhaps it was his spunk, the way he spoke his mind. Perhaps it was his standoffish attitude, and how much he seemed to appreciate Hawke's questionable sense of humor. Whatever it was had made him want to discover more and more, and the desire had never diminished. Watching Fenris grow and free himself from his own cage had been worth the emotional torture he had gone through. He wouldn't hesitate to walk the same path again, if it guaranteed Fenris' happiness.  
  
Even if he wasn't part of the picture.  
  
"Fenris," he said again, his throat closed.  
  
Sacrificing himself didn't meant that he _wanted_ to live without him. His brows came together in a pained frown, and he looked at him from head to toe and back again, warmth swirling around his heart. He was the one he loved, the one he wanted to protect, no matter how infuriating he could be. Fenris must have felt his insistent stare, for in the next moment he finally lifted his head up. There was wariness behind all that feral pride, fear and longing, and Hawke locked their gazes together, mesmerized by the perfect shade of his eyes.  
  
Maker's breath...  
  
"You're beautiful," he exhaled, and Fenris frowned in confusion. He couldn't blame him—his own thoughts were all over the place—and he dared take a step forward, his expression tender.  
  
"How could I even think of being with anyone else when all I've ever wanted stands right in front of me?"  
  
"Don't make light of this, Hawke," the elf finally spoke, his raspy voice sounding slightly unsure, and Hawke shook his head.  
  
"You foolish, stubborn elf."  
  
He took another step forward, dangerously closing the distance between them. Fenris stared with caution and was rewarded with a gentle smile, Hawke's expression twisted in amused exasperation.  
  
"It's my fault," he conceded, an apologetic curve to his lips. "I'm as foolish and stubborn as you are. No wonder we make such a perfect match."  
  
"Hawke..."  
  
There was silent warnings laced around his name, but it made the man grin even wider. He took the final step to reach him and cupped his face without an ounce of hesitation, inhaling sharply as he touched his skin. Fenris had a similar reaction and Hawke watched as the elf's lips parted on a silent cry, wondering whether it was surprise, pain or relief, or a mix of all three. He searched his eyes with keen interest, gently rubbing his thumbs across his cheeks.  
  
"There's only you," he breathed out, and Fenris winced in spite of himself, a trace of hope flashing in his gaze. Hawke clung to it, convinced that nothing was lost.  
  
"I'm a coward," he shrugged, playful. "Perhaps we are more alike than you seem to think."  
  
That, of course, earned him a scorching glare, but Fenris didn't flinch otherwise, glowering with an odd sort of quietude. It encouraged Hawke to continue, and he sighed as his grin faded, taking on a more serious approach. This was important. This mattered more than anything else and he wanted Fenris to truly believe just how much he cared for him. No more jokes.  
  
"I didn't want to overwhelm you," he explained, the tip of his fingers curling around white strands of hair. "You're so precious to me. I thought if I didn't restrain myself, I would scare you away. I wanted to give you time... but I waited too long."  
  
Perhaps _this_ was a little too serious and he lowered his lashes on a brief chuckle, lightly embarrassed. Maker, he was bad at this. He had Fenris' full attention and he was growing nervous, his next thought prompting him to walk a lighter route.  
  
"It backfired." He gave another shrug, slightly coy, smiling a cheeky smile around the silent apology. "I made you think I didn't want you, and the truth is that I can't even look at you without the urge to knead myself thro—"  
  
"Hawke!" Fenris finally cut him off, turning a deep shade of red as he scowled in a mix of annoyance and indignation.  
  
He pushed against the man's chest but didn't quite shove him away, and Hawke bit his tongue as he let go of his face. He remained close, intently studying the elf's features as Fenris seemed to think of something to say. He looked pensive. A trifle irritated, and if his voice sounded dismissal, it was the hope laced with it that kept Hawke afloat, knowing that even through his many doubts, Fenris was still willing to try.  
  
"They will never approve of me," he finally said, and Hawke frowned in genuine confusion, causing Fenris to sigh with impatience. "The Champion of Kirkwall is expected to choose one of his stature."  
  
Oh. _Oh_. So not only did he worry about Hawke spreading his attention elsewhere, he didn't deem himself worthy of him? Of his _title_ , merely because of he was an elf? Their race was frowned upon, he was well aware of that. A former slave, a fugitive... Hawke had responsibilities he did not always have, but that didn't mean anyone could dictate who he could and could not love. He didn't care that he was an elf, no more than Fenris cared that Hawke was a mage. Fenris was Fenris and that was the end of it. In more ways than one, he was far more noble than most humans he'd had the chance—and misfortune—to meet.  
  
Hawke found his smile again, weak but frank, oddly touched by this unexpected display of jealousy. Moved that he seemed afraid to lose him, too. His pulse quickened as he leaned in, searching his eyes once more.  
  
"No one measures up to you, Fenris," he said softly, and he reached up to trail one finger along the shape of his ear. The elf shivered and it pleased him, the ghost of a grin on his lips. "I wouldn't be half the man I am today if it weren't for you."  
  
And he truly believed it. As much as Hawke had helped him mend his wounds, Fenris had been an anchor as well, a pillar he knew he could lean on if need be. They had both supported each other through thick and thin and Hawke had no intention to change a thing. Fenris was his home and it would remain as such for as long as he could breathe, more than willing to offer the same in return.  
  
His grin widened and impish glints danced in his eyes as he leaned in even closer, foreheads brushing.  
  
"I chose you, you chose me," he whispered, tentatively rubbing their noses together.  
  
It was a very light touch and Fenris let him, visibly growing more at ease. There was acceptance in his gaze, reflected in Hawke's as well, and finally it felt like _them_ and the man trembled with renewed mirth, wishing to claim him whole.  
  
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but it really sounds like our cue to live happily ever after."  
  
Fenris snorted, a roll of beautiful, mossy-green eyes, but it was void of scorn this time and Hawke knew they would be just fine.  
  
"Easier said than done," the elf groaned for good measure, and the man cupped his face again, feeling their hearts beating in harmony.  
  
"Not if you let me," he all but murmured, and he dipped down to seek his mouth.  
  
His head instantly began spinning. Fenris met him halfway and the surprise winded him so that he couldn't muffle the moan gracing his lips, echoed by the elf's own sigh of contentment. Maker's Breath, how he'd missed this. _Him_. It was chaste, it was slow, but it was deep nonetheless as lips brushed in languorous exploratory touches. There was a low, sweet note of desire between them, slowly catching fire. Fenris smelled like smoke and sour ale but he tasted like everything he remembered.  
  
Mingled air and stolen sighs, Hawke wrapped his arms around his lover, nearly crushing him against his larger form. Fenris' breath caught in the back of his throat but he did nothing to discourage him, shaking off his gauntlets before reaching up to cradle the man's head. _Yes_. How foolish of him to have waited so long. Fenris had known what he wanted all along and never would he assume again, relishing now in his elven embrace.  
  
"What of your obligations?" Fenris mumbled, low and husky, and Hawke kept on teasing his lips as the elf tried to speak, reluctant to break the sweet contact. "Will you never... invite me along?"  
  
"I didn't think you would enjoy a noisy crowd," Hawke simply answered, swiping his tongue along his lower lip, claiming his open mouth.  
  
He was welcomed with wet warmth and Fenris mewled as tongues swirled and suckled, trembling in his arms. It was a mistake to think that he could be so easily subdued, and if he indulged him for a moment—one he clearly enjoyed—he retaliated with a gentle nip, causing the man to hiss in mild pain.  
  
"Perhaps if you let me decide what I _do_ and do _not_ enjoy..."  
  
Oh, that little imp. Hawke grinned against his lips, a light chuckle. This was bliss and he never wanted it to end. He didn't say anything, not yet, lowering his hands until he could cup the elf's buttocks, pressing their groins together. It made Fenris gasp for air and Hawke swallowed his sigh with a groan, bucking up.  
  
"I'm not ashamed of you, Fenris," he whispered, hoarse and raw. He left his mouth to trail heated kisses along his jaw, enjoying the little noises the elf seemingly couldn't help making. "You are more than welcome to follow me wherever I go."  
  
Fenris' response didn't make itself wait. In one swift move he was up and leaping, circling the man's waist with strong thighs. Hawke welcomed that shift with an appreciative hum and he hugged him closer, tipping his face up to receive the fierce, tender kiss Fenris lavished his mouth with. His dainty fingers were twisted sharp in his hair and the heat was growing inside out. It was his heart, however, that grew a lot warmer when the elf spoke again. There was a smile there, tugging at the corner of his lips, and Hawke stopped breathing for a moment, blinking his gaze open to catch a glimpse of him in the midst of their passion. He looked peaceful, delighted. A trifle mischievous.  
  
He looked happy.  
  
"I enjoy following you," he simply grinned, and it was impossible to miss the deep affection shimmering in his eyes, fully his.  
  
Always his.  
  



End file.
